


Northern Wilds

by say_no_more



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A/U, Arya is underage by most current legal standards, Courting Rituals, F/M, Romance, Unusual courting rituals, but not by Westrosi Standards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-20 03:44:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14886992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/say_no_more/pseuds/say_no_more
Summary: When Eddard Stark faced the man of the Night's Watch who abandoned his post, he took credence to the man's claims of White Walkers and began taking steps to protect his people in the north.Now, several years later, Tywin Lannister has demanded that his son, Jaime Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and former Kingsguard, travel north in some effort to cease Eddard Stark's madness.Jaime gets a bit lost along the way.





	1. The King's Road

Jaime had hated traveling to the North the last time. The long march, the summer snows, the strangeness of the people they encountered - now, Jaime wondered if it hadn’t been the company he kept during his travels which he found displeasing. He’d still been fucking Cersei then, and acting as Kingsguard for Robert had never been a pleasant business, traveling or not.

The cold and snow was horribly vicious, and Jaime cursed his numb limbs and the sting of cold wind against his face, but he found that he rather enjoyed the silence of his surroundings.

Jaime found it was safer, traveling alone. He hadn’t been attacked a single time since getting separated from his contingent, whereas they’d suffered attacks from wildlings almost constantly when traveling in large numbers. Upon reaching Moat Cailin, they had been warned of the dangers of traveling the Kings Road, and their company had despaired to learn that if they’d made it through the Riverlands a few weeks sooner, there would have been Northmen patrolling the road to Winterfell and keeping it safe. Most of the soldiers had been called to the Dreadfort, however, to deal with Bolton, his bastard, and the Wildlings which the Boltons had given free reign over the countryside.

 _A King’s War in the south, a Resource War in the north, and a Death War at the Wall_ , Jamie thought with a small, bitter smile. He liked the taste of battle he’d gotten during his travels in the north, though. He rather liked fighting against the wildlings, their fear and desperation holding true purpose, rather than the petty squabbling the Baratheons and Lannisters had taken to. There was none of the grand posturing or tourneying with the wildlings, no crowns or great glory. Just survival, a battle of the purest form.

 _No father pulling strings, no brother whispering in my ear, no power-hungry sister tearing me apart from the inside out just to prove to herself that she can. Just me, my sword, and the cold_ , he rejoiced.

Still, Jaime didn’t linger in the snowy lands around the King’s Road, riding as hard and as fast as possible for Winterfell.

 _Hot pools and a hot mea_ l, he chanted as he drove his horse forward. _A roof, a fire, and a bit of bloody light_.

Jaime had seen winter before, but never like this. Never in the north. It was miserable, he decided, and he didn’t understand why the whole of the north didn’t migrate south for the winters. How anyone could survive under these conditions for any length of time, he didn’t understand. He wasn’t sure he wanted to understand.

It certainly gave him some respect for the Starks, though. He’d give Ned that much, at least.

* * *

Jaime was unsure of how far he was from Winterfell. His horse had taken him on a merry ride through the hills after panicking during a scrimmage with wildlings. It had taken him over two weeks to find the King’s Road again, and as the faint light of the sun was only visible for less than three hours every day, he couldn’t be sure how far he had ridden or even what direction he was headed, sometimes.

He was growing rather tired of the constant not knowing, and he almost wanted to be harassed by wildlings just so he could ask them for some direction. He was in pitch black darkness, and it was snowing once again. He wondered if the skies ever cleared of cloud and snow during winter in the north. He didn’t even care if it happened during the meager minutes of daylight or in the depths of night - he’d be perfectly content to see even a few stars.

Jaime had never cared for words or poetry, but his desperation for even a hint of light was forcing him to recall some of the rhymes which Cersei had mooned over when they were children, and later the poems Tyrion favored once he realized that his mind could often accomplish what his body couldn’t and his brother began to grasp at every book and scroll he could get his hands on, even the romantic ones.

Jaime was intently focused on remembering the flourishes to one such poem when someone said, “They don’t need any air-headed little girls or poems at the wall. I hope you’re better with that sword than you are with words.”

Jaime cursed as the sudden noise spooked his pony - he’d kill the stupid beast if it ran off with him again - and eventually managed to bring the thing still.

“You’re no wildling,” he immediately recognized - some of the wild people he’d gone up against had accents so thick they couldn’t be understood even when they were speaking the common tongue. This one was a northerner.

“Not for lack of trying,” the woman told him as she crawled out of the place she’d been resting in the snow. “What in the Seven Hells are you doing riding in the middle of the night? Your stupid horse almost stepped on me. And don’t you know that night is when the wildlings are most active?”

“I head for Winterfell,” he told the woman.

In reply, she gave an undignified snort as she pulled a spear from the snow and propped it against her shoulder. “You’re going the wrong way, then.”

Jaime cursed long and loud, uncaring that a woman was present, and she gave a delighted laugh in response. “Southerners have the most amusing curses,” she told him.

“How much further north is Winterfell?” he pressed. “Are there any towns or villages nearby where I could eat and rest?”

“Winterfell is the nearest,” she told him, the _stupid idiot_ implied in her tone. “And it isn’t north. It’s south from here.”

“Are you japing? This blasted animal carried me _around_ Winterfell? Bloody hells, I’m going to have this thing butchered.”

“Fine, but not until we reach the castle,” the woman told him. “He’s fatter than most horses - he’d make a good meal.”

“What do you mean, _we_?” Jaime asked.

“What business have you in Winterfell?” the woman asked even as she took hold of the horse’s saddle and Jaime’s arm, hoisting herself into the seat behind him without so much as a by your leave. “If you’re for the Night’s Watch, we’ll give you a meal and a bed, but there isn’t work in Winterfell for you.”

Jaime’s first instinct was to throw the woman from the horse. After Brienne and his horrid sister, he’d made a point of discouraging women at every opportunity - she could walk, for all he cared. However, as she settled into her seat and put her arms around him, her warmth almost immediately began seeping through his cloak and armor, so he held his damn tongue.

“I wasn’t aware that the north’s economy was doing so well that additional workers weren’t needed,” he told her as he turned the horse about and began urging it down the road in the right direction.

“We need workers plenty,” she denied. “But the wall needs them more.”

Jaime hummed. “I’m Jaime Lannister, of Casterly Rock,” he told the woman. “I’m not for the Night’s Watch, but I’ve come North to negotiate supplies and assistance for the Watch, and I brought thirty men intending to take the black. There will be a few hundred more by the end of the year, hopefully, but I brought the men I could immediately gather.”

“Truly?” the girl asked.

“You doubt me?” he asked.

“Perhaps. Father says the Lannisters are dishonorable. And no one else has replied to father’s requests for assistance. Except for Stannis, but he’s only sent up obsidian, which doesn’t even _work_ on the weights.”

Jaime was quiet for a moment, disbelief welling up in his stomach. “Father?” he repeated. “You mean Eddard Stark? You’re one of the Stark girls?”

“Arya,” she supplied.

He didn’t remember much of the Stark children from his last visit, except for the one, Bran. The climber. He and Cersei had nearly been caught by the little shit, once, and his sister had watched the boy with viciously narrowed eyes the rest of their visit.

This one, Jaime didn’t remember at all.

“What the fuck are you doing out here by yourself?” Jaime asked.

“I’m not by myself. Nymeria’s with me.”

“And is Nymeria hiding up your skirts or in that cloak? You look awfully alone to me.”

“I’m not wearing skirts, stupid. Nymeria’s my direwolf. She’s hunting right now, but if I called her, she’d be here and ripping you to shreds in a moment.”

“Gods, even the girls have direwolves?” Jaime asked. He remembered the pups from his last visit, but they’d been nothing impressive, only the size of dogs. He’d since heard tales of the wolves belonging to the Stark boys - the littlest Stark’s wolf was particularly vicious, apparently.

“Direwolf companion or not, I find it difficult to believe that your father and lady mother would allow you to roam the countryside by yourself. Especially in the dead of winter with wildlings everywhere and the threat of white walkers at your heals.” Cersei would have a conniption if Marcella had done anything so reckless and foolhardy.

“The white walkers haven’t made it south of the wall, yet, and I treat with the wildlings. One tried to carry me off once,” she told him, the pride clear in her voice. “Osha says being carried off means you have to marry them, though, so I put a knife in his leg and ran back home.”

“How charming,” Jaime dryly commented.

“Isn’t it?” she sighed, sounding like a girl mooning over a knight jousting in a tourney. “I haven’t met a wildling I’d let carry me off just yet, though. I’d let Jaqen carry me off, but he’s leaving for Braavos as soon as White Harbor breaks up the ice and puts ships to the ocean again, and he says I can’t go with him.”

“Jaqen,” Jamie repeated, the unfamiliar syllables clumsy on his tongue.

“My dancing master,” she told him.

“Ah. Friend of wildlings, keeper of direwolves, sleeper in the snow, and a dancer,” he listed. “You northern ladies have exciting pastimes.”

“I’m not a lady,” the girl plainly informed him, and for a second he wondered if Brienne might be amenable to joining him in the north and taking a squire.

* * *

Jaime was thankful for the girl, Arya. She left Winterfell’s castle and ran around in the snowy lands with wildlings on a regular basis, apparently, and she knew all sorts of tricks for surviving the cold.

Jaime had a small, simple tent - Arya Stark knew how to quickly and efficiently dig and pack snow to form a safe, easily hidden, mildly warmer niche for the tent to rest in.

“Some of the freefolk build their homes out of ice,” she chattered as she worked. She was a noisy little thing with an opinion on everything, Jaime was learning, but she seemed incapable of discussing anything which was not dangerous or exciting or wild, so he could forgive her the incessant stream of words. “Some of them have made an entire village of ice to the north of Winterfell. Nymeria carried me there on her back once. We didn’t lingter, though - the Thenns are well enough neighbors, but not the type of freefolk you want to make friends with. Not without taking proper precautions first. So I’m learning the Old Tongue before I treat with them. Jaqen says I’m not strong enough to challenge them in battle, yet, and they aren’t scared of fighting direwolves, otherwise I'd probably visit every chance I get. Father says I’m not allowed to start any wars, though, so I'm keeping my distance for now.”

Jaime’s tent was small but well made. He’d purchased it, along with the snow-horse, while journeying through the Reach. The tent itself was designed and crafted by wildlings, and over the past weeks he’d grown to love it almost as much as his sword and armor - the tent was armor against the cold, after all, and the finest armor anyone in their party had. He’d taken to jeering at the men who had wasted their coin on drink and whores instead of proper supplies for keeping warm upon reaching the snowy north.

He’d grown accustomed to sharing the tent with his squire, but he was brought to pause when Eddard Stark’s daughter dove into the tent after him, expertly tied the flaps closed, and began pulling off her snow covered furrs.

She was smaller than her furrs made her appear, and more a woman, Jaime realized as she laid her fur cloak and clothes over Jamie’s covers, then wiggled her way into the sleep bag with him. Jaime hissed when she pressed her cold toes into his shins, and he grunted as she aggressively burrowed against his chest and made herself comfortable.

“Keep wiggling around like that, and a man might get ideas,” he crossly informed her.

“Bran says you can only get it up for your sister,” she replied.

Jamie’s heart was beating at a battle pace in an instant, and he barely recognized his own voice as he snarled, “ _You keep your fucking mouth shut_.”

“So he saw right?” she asked, sounding delighted, and Jaime was glad for the darkness so that he didn’t have to find out if Arya Stark’s incriminating stare looked anything like her father’s, or if she took some sick delight in information of others like her aunt Lisa did.

He should have known the little cunt knew how to play the game - the Starks were leaders in the North, and the game in the North was different, but it was still a vicious fight. How would the Starks use this against him and his family, he wondered. Would they use it as a bargaining tool during the negotiations? _Give us food and gold and men, and we won’t add fuel to Stannis or Renly Baratheon’s treasonous fires_.

“Be still,” the girl laughed. “Freefolk do it all the time - some of them do, anyways, although they’re not stupid enough to advertise it to the Crows or Northmen. And I certainly wouldn’t with any of my brothers - well, Jon maybe. He has a wildling woman who would cut me from belly to throat if I ever seriously thought about it, though. Besides, Bran said that Cersei’s lost her power - over you and everyone else. About time, I say. She was giving Bran nightmares.”

“What the fuck are you on about?” Jaime snarled. “What does he know?”

Jaime felt her shrug in the dark tent. “Everything, I think. He has green dreams - Robb and Jon took him to train his sight above the wall, even. Sometimes his visions are symbolic or metaphoric, though, and it’s fun to piece out which are true visions and which are symbolic.”

Gritting his teeth and barely restraining himself from wrapping his arms around the girl and squeezing the life from her, Jamie ground out, “Who else has he told?”

“Don’t get cross,” she demanded. “He hasn’t told anyone besides me. He doesn’t talk to anyone but me about most of the visions he sees. Some people don’t believe he has green dreams. And others… he doesn’t trust them not to interfere or take action concerning events which _need_ to happen. The things he’s told me about Stannis’ Red Woman would make your brains melt and drip out your ears.”

“What do me and my sister mater at all?” Jaime snarled. “You said yourself - my sister has lost all power. My father’s had her removed from King’s Landing and shut up in Casterly Rock, did you know? He’s left Tyrion responsible for her, and my father hates my brother.”

The girl shrugged. “Sometimes, Bran sees possibilities. If she hadn’t lost power when she had and how she had, she would have destroyed the realm. And… did Petyr Baelish lose his head, truly?”

This question brought Jaime’s paranoid rage to an abrupt standstill - not because of the question itself, but because of how she asked the question, sounding hesitant and hopeful and terrified.

“I was there when it was removed from his body,” he confirmed. “Two days before I left King’s Landing and started gathering men for the journey north.”

She gave a soft, relieved sigh at this proclomation, and he felt her every muscle relax as the breath was released.

“What was so horrible about his possibilities?” Jaime asked.

“Your sister may have destroyed the realm, but Petyr Baelish would have destroyed the Starks.”

That night, Jaime dreamed about his sister and the twisted, seething monster she had become after Joffrey’s death, and he dreamed of the wrath she would have brought upon the realms if Father hadn’t exerted his will over her.

* * *

They had been riding for only a few hours when they heard a long howl in the distance.

“Off the road,” Arya immediately demanded.

“What-?”

“Thenns,” she declared. “If they find someone on the road out of black, the Thenns kill them. Come on.”

“But they won’t care if we’re off the road?” Jaime grumbled.

“As long as we don’t have a horse, no -- go on, get off and let it loose. We’re close enough to Winterfell, I can have Nymeria heard it to the castle. Come on, stupid. Off the horse - Grab the supplies! It will take days for us to walk there!”

Once Jaime was dismounted, Stark gave the horse a solid whack with her spear and it was galloping off.

“Truly, they won’t bother us if we’re off the road and on foot?” Jaime asked as they began trekking over the hills. The girl was better for walking over the snowy hills than he or his men were. She used her spear to test the ground, and she was able to easily discern which snow was packed and which snow was likely to collapse under their weight.

“No. It was part of the accord father made with the freefolk before allowing them south of the wall - They follow our rules as long as they’re our guests, and we don’t slaughter them. The Thenns have their own kind of rules, but the freefolk in general are honorable when it comes to keeping their word. They don’t bother patrols, when there _are_ patrols on the King’s Road, and only men headed for the Night’s Watch travel the King’s Road _without_ escorts. The Freefolk fight among themselves, constantly, and the ones further south are bad mannered, but as long as their battles don’t interfere with the smallfolk or hillfolk of the North, it’s their own business. There are twenty thousand freefolk - women and children, mostly - residing in Winterfell at the moment, and the Thenns don’t engage in battle with other Freefolk this close to the city. Not if it means inciting fighting, and not when some of _their_ women and children are the ones behind Winterfell’s walls.”

Jaime chuckled. “Your father always did have an eye for hostages. I suppose that riding a horse is a signal that the travelers passing through are not wildlings?”

“Not the ones that have settled around Winterfell, which means that wildlings on horseback are hunting and foraging on Thenn land without permission, and therefore are fair game for attack.”

“I can’t decide whether your father is a hero or an idiot for allowing the lot of them south of the wall,” Jaime declared.

Stark grunted as she stepped on a bit of unpacked snow and was suddenly almost waist deep in the stuff. She barely seemed to notice as she used her spear to climb her way out and stomp to higher, well packed ground. “A hero, definitely,” she declared. “None of his banner men were happy about it - especially when most of them didn’t believe the Watch’s reports of white walkers. His argument of _shall we barr them in the north and doom them to join the weight’s army?_ had them quieted. Eventually.”

“How many weights are there?” Jaime quietly asked.

“Too many to count,” Stark gravely answered.

Even in the south, tales of the Others seemed far fetched and outlandish. It wasn’t until word had arrived that Ned Stark was allowing tens of thousands of wildlings to pass south of the Wall that anyone started giving credence to the rumors. Nobody took it seriously, though, until high houses began announcing their first and second born sons as Men of the Night’s Watch instead of announcing marriages, and the Ironborn began sending men and ships north instead of south. Then, Eddard Stark had heard news of the Targaryen and her dragons in the east, and instead of sending assassins, as Joffrey had, he’d requested that the Citadel send him a maester well versed in formal High Valyrian so that he might implore her to bring her dragons to the Wall.

It was only when Tywin Lannister heard that Eddard Stark intended to _invite and house_ the woman that he’d sent Jaime north.

* * *

They could see Winterfell from miles away.

“Is it on fire?” Jaime asked when he saw the glow in the distance and Arya announced there were still three days of walking ahead of them.

“No, stupid. It’s just so blasted dark, and there are so many fires burning, that it sometimes looks like it’s burning from a distance. It’s not so startling when the sky’s clear, but it’s overly bright when the fires are reflecting off the snow and the clouds.”

“Call me stupid one more time and I’ll call down the Thenns on you,” he threatened.

“The Thenns don’t come this close to Winterfell ever, _stupid_.”

Since yelling for wildlings to attack her wasn’t an option, Jaime settled for pushing her into a snowdrift. She responded by giving him a whack with the blunt end of her spear even as she lay on her back in the snow, and Jaime ended up falling, as well.

“How does anyone fight in this bloody snow?” Jaime snapped as he pulled himself up, shaking himself out with care to avoid snow working its way inside of his clothes.

“With spears!” the girl replied as she smoothly and easily pulled herself up with the assistance of said spear. She was several feet away, but she gave him another shove with the blunt end of the weapon and Jaime was sent down once again, cursing at her the whole way.

“Stupid, stupid southerner,” she taunted.


	2. Chapter 2

They didn’t enter Winterfell through the main gates, or any gates at all.

The castle and it’s grounds had been repaired and rebuilt - towers which lay crumbling and decrepit during Jaime’s last visit stood solid and whole upon his return. The grounds were alive with people - more people than Jaime thought lived in the whole of the North. Winterfell had indeed become a city, as Arya Stark had termed it.

“Why don’t we go through the gates?” Jaime asked as he and Stark snuck past horses and guards, over walls, past smallfolk and wildlings and servants, past more walls, and eventually into the castle.

“If we go through the gates, then Mother will know I’ve left Winterfell,” the girl whispered back as she stopped at cellar door and began picking at a lock. “She thinks I’m visiting with the freefolk camped in the city whenever I run off, and you’re not going to tell her otherwise, got it?”

“And what will I get for keeping my mouth shut?” Jaime asked, then immediately regretted it - she hadn’t breathed a word of Cersei since that first night, to the point that he’d almost forgotten that _she knew_.

She didn’t mention Cersei now, however. She only said, “We can discuss terms later-”

“Ah, you’ll _owe_ me,” he chuckled.

“Fuck off, Lannister, that’s not-”

“You owe me a debt,” he reiterated.

Still cursing, the girl finally got the lock open, and she ducked inside.

The warmth hit him as they climbed the stairs from the cellar. He’d forgotten what breathing warm air was like. He hadn’t realized what the air freezing in his lungs was doing to him, and he almost _gasped_ with relief.

Stark gave a long sigh. “You’re a fucking mess,” she informed him. “Come on, let’s sneak a meal in my room, then we can go get warm in the baths.”

“Inviting me to your chambers, Lady Stark? How forward of you.”

“Don’t be daft. Bran will probably be there - he always sees me returning, and he likes to be sure that those dreams aren’t the _symbolic_ kind of green dreams.”

Jaime felt irritation flash through him at the prospect of meeting the climber, but decided it wasn’t worth complaining about her brother if it meant he would have the opportunity to indulge in a hot meal for the first time in over a month. The kitchen, when they tip-toed through and stole a basket of bread and soup and meat, smelled  _divine_  after Jaime's time eating little else but cold jerky.

Arya spoke true when she said her brother would be waiting for her in her room, but when she stepped towards the boy and looked at him, she said, “Leave him. He’s having a green dream.”

The young man was at the window, sitting on a well cushioned bench, wrapped in furs with his legs at an awkward, uncomfortable position beneath him as he slumped across the seat. He couldn’t be more that a few years older than his sister, but there was gray in his hair and his skin which Jaime could see had clearly been damaged by frost and cold wind. Jaime stepped towards him for a closer look - Bran was facing the window, even though the glass was covered with snow and frost. When Jaime turned to get a look at him, he saw that the boy’s eyes were open, even though Stark said he was dreaming, and his eyes were a luminescent milky white. His lips were moving, as if he were trying to speak, but no words came forth and he hardly seemed to be breathing.

“Leave him,” the girl demanded again.

She had slid her spear under the bed, out of sight. She was removing her furs and leathers, and she had donned a simple, thick dress in their place.

For the first time, Jaime saw her face - the darkness hadn't permitted as much while they were traveling through the cold north. She was thin, all sharp angles and hard lines. She was pale, with wild brown hair falling out of a poorly tied braid, and she had gray eyes. She wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense. There was nothing soft or pleasant about her. But she was vividly striking, and gods, her _eyes_. He could see the life in them, wild and vicious and all the more pleased for it.

She barely paid Jaime any mind as she grabbed at the basket of food they had nicked from the kitchens. She took it to a table by the fire, and she began eating ravenously before she’d even taken a seat. Jaime lurched towards the table himself, suddenly fearful that the girl would eat the entire basket before he could take even two steps.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a lady eat with so little grace,” he noted as he took some bread from the basket.

“‘M not a lady,” she said through her mouthful of food. “And I haven’t had a proper meal in _ages_. Besides, if you don’t eat quick, it goes cold.”

It _was_ rather pleasant to eat warm food, and Jaime soon found himself following the woman's example.

Bran came to just as they were finishing their meal, alerting them to his awakened state with a grunt.

“Hi-o, Brother,” Arya called to him.

The young man jolted in surprise, then turned to look at his sister. Bran didn’t smile, but his eyes raked over his sister with hungry insistence, as if assuring himself that she wasn’t some sort of specter or vision.

“You shouldn’t be so careless, Arya,” he said in greeting.

“Where’s the fun in that?” she rejoined, unconcerned.

“Am I missing something?” Jaime asked.

“Brother spies on me when I go beyond Winterfell,” Arya informed him. “And he doesn’t like it when I do anything exciting.”

“Ice jumping and treating with giants is not _exciting_ ,” the young man grumbled as he straightened and stretched, his back popping noisily. Then, he declared, “I want to go to the baths, as well. I can’t believe Hodor left me next to the bloody window during my seeing dream.”

“I can’t believe Hodor left you at all,” Arya announced as she finished her meal, licking at her fingers.

“He’s terrified of you,” Bran told her. “He doesn’t like lingering in your rooms for any length of time.”

“How he survived so many winters, I’ll never understand,” the woman murmured as she went to her brother, let him wrap his arms around her, then took his legs and lifted him so that he was clinging to her back.

Jaime’s eyebrows rose when he realized that the man couldn’t walk, and that his tiny little sister was going to carry him.

Bran Stark’s eyes met Jaime’s almost  as this thought occurred to him, and as soon as their eyes met, he was almost overwhelmed by the sudden urge to kill the little brat. Bran _knew_ , Jaime could see. Bran knew _everything and more_ , just as his sister had claimed.

Bran didn’t seem inclined to act on his knowledge, however. He only said, “Ser Jaime. It’s an honor to see you again… You’ve grown.”

Jaime scoffed - the climber had barely been as tall as Jaime’s chest during his last visit to Winterfell. Now, he was taller than his sister, even if he couldn’t stand on his legs, and he had graying hair. He’d become an old man in less than a decade.

“Don’t,” Arya Stark commanded Jaime as he opened his mouth to speak his mind.

Now, he wanted to kill _her_ , but he closed his mouth and kept it shut as he followed the siblings to the baths. 

* * *

 

“This place… did not exist during my last visit to Winterfell,” Jaime commented as they walked through the large underground hall.

The floors were full of natural pools of steaming water, and the pools of water were full of people, men women and children alike, old and young, and absolutely none of them concerned with their nudity, only the warmth of the water. The edges of the rooms had small falls of water falling down on people as they scrubbed mud and filth from the skin before joining others in the pools.

“It did, actually,” Bran told him. “The entrance caved in almost two hundred years ago, and it was only rediscovered when the builders began repairing the towers and tunnels of Winterfell to accommodate the castle’s new guests.”

“These are the public pools for the smallfolk and the freefolk,” Arya explained, keeping a quick, surefooted pace even as she moved over the slippery floors with her brother on her back - hardly anyone glanced at them twice, except to shout greetings to Arya. She was well known and well respected among the smallfolk, Jaime was beginning to understand. And Bran - the people of Winterfell liked him as much as Jaime did, apparently. They pretended he wasn’t there, avoiding his gaze and acting as if Arya walked alone. “The second level of pools are for castle residents - the soldiers and servants. We use the pools on the highest level. There will be clothes you can borrow, and the water is a little warmer than the other pools.”

“Sansa has started adding herbs to the waters,” Bran told his sister. “It’s sandalwood, this week.”

The woman started grumbling about her sister in low mean tones at this announcement.

“Arya,” her brother quietly but firmly admonished, and the girl let out a long breath and started chanting, _She’ll be gone soon enough, she’ll be gone soon enough_ quietly to herself.

Bran rolled his eyes, the most youthful gesture Jaime had seen from him thus far.

“Winterfell appears to be flourishing,” Jaime noted as they passed through a door on the far side of the underground chamber and began climbing stairs cut into the rock, Arya hardly winded from carrying the weight of her brother.

“Appears, yes,” Bran told him with a frown. “Appearances are everything with the wildlings, though. If the situation looks like it’s gone sour, they panic. There’s more food here than what can be found in the hills, but not enough for everybody, and not enough for the whole winter. If they knew how diminished the stores already were…”

“I would think they’d appreciate the safety of the castle,” Jaime mused.

“They won’t care about holing up in castles until white walkers are spotted south of the wall,” Arya stiffly informed him.

 _White walkers south of the wall_ , echoed through Jaime’s head, and when he turned eyes to Bran, the young man met his eyes with a somber gaze, and a chill ran down Jaime’s spine.

They ceased talking when they heard voices ahead - soldiers, finished with their baths, were headed down the steps.

Like the wildlings and smallfolk in the chamber below, the soldiers greeted Arya Stark with familiarity and respect as they passed. They seemed less weary of Bran than the smallfolk had been, and they addressed him politely in greeting. They didn’t linger, however.

The second chamber was just as large as the first, and it had a very similar layout of pools and fountains, except that curtains existed around the pools. As their party passed between them, Jaime recognized that some of the pools were only for women, some were only for men, and some were being used by both. The second chamber was far less crowded than the chamber below, and there was more steam in the air. Jaime was beginning to sweat in his winter furs.

The staircase to the upper chamber was smaller, and narrower, and much longer. Still, Arya didn’t complain as she carried her brother. Not until they were almost to the top, at least, when she muttered, “I’m summoning Hodor to carry you back down.”

Bran gave a dry chuckle, but otherwise made no comment.

The upper chamber was the smallest, and the warmest. The pools there seemed much more natural, with outcroppings of rock rising up around the water and providing privacy from one pool to the next. It was also better lit, with large hearths and chimneys next to every pool. The scent of sandalwood was heavy in the air, and Jaime felt it fill and warm his lungs, making him breathe easier. There were shelves carved into the walls and they held soaps and towels and spare clothes, and there were benches to sit at while dressing and undressing. As in the other two chambers, there were fountains coming from the ceiling for people to rinse under, but in this room each fountain was dug into the wall with a curtain around it.

There were two women in one of the pools - Jaime could hear them conversing in quiet voices, although he couldn’t distinguish their words. When Arya called out, her voice reverberated through the chambers and sounded almost disrespectfully loud.

“Oy! Men! If any of you are here, one of you come and help Bran into the pool!”

Jaime found himself relieved that he was not expected to help with this particular task. He watched as Arya set her brother on one of the benches near the shelves, and a man came trotting out from one of the pools, naked as the day he was born.

“Where’ve you been, then?” the young man asked Arya in greeting.

“Hunting,” she replied.

“She went ice jumping,” Bran announced, and the man cursed.

“If you’re going to run off with Wildlings and take part in such _insanity_ -”

“It’s not insanity! It’s good practice for keeping balance and battling in icy climes-”

“-I’m not going to cover for you with Mother,” the man finished - another Stark, then. Robb, the eldest, Jaime guessed. “By the old gods and the new, Arya, you can’t keep running off with wildlings-”

“Freefolk,” the girl corrected.

Robb groaned, then seemed to notice Jaime. “Oh, hello, I… Jaime Lannister?”

Jaime grinned and sketched a light bow. “At your service,” he declared.

A blush lit the young man’s face, and he hastily grabbed a towel to cover himself. “I apologize - no one informed me that you had arrived-”

“He came in with me. I found the fool to the north, headed straight for the wall even as he was asking after Winterfell-”

Jaime sighed when he heard one of the women in the nearby pool laugh loudly - Arya was doing nothing to lower her voice or hide her scorn.

“Ah - so then the riderless horse that Nemeria chased through the gates would belong to you?” Robb dryly asked Jaime.

“That’s right. You sister sent it off when she realized there were Thenn nearby.”

“Well then, Ser, I welcome you to Winterfell, and I’m sorry that you were forced to suffer my sister for any length of time.”

Arya punched her older brother as he grinned good naturedly at her. Rolling her eyes, she demanded, “Just help Bran, you oaf. Come on, Lannister. Let me show you around.”

Showing him around entailed directing him to the clothes hamper, finding some clean lennin which fit him, and pouring two cups of wine while he found him shoes and some soap.

Then, without a lick of shame, she began to undress.

Jaime did not recall his last visit to the north being _nearly_ this interesting.


	3. Chapter 3

His days traveling to Winterfell and the first night in the castle seemed like a dream by the next afternoon. After receiving a proper and cold reception from Catelyn Stark, the negotiations for supplies began immediatly.

There were no wildlings or small folk in the chambers, only lords of the North and Robb Stark, who stood as the warden in Winterfell while his father was away in battle. It was all grand posturing, figures and sums, and petty bickering. Politics in the north were not so different from politics in King’s Landing. Not when old, great houses were involved.

By the end of the day, Jaime was more exhausted than he had been after marching through the frozen waste for a month.

As he sunk into the hot water of the pools at day’s end, he declared, “If I had known that acting as Lord of Casterly Rock meant that I’d have to spend my days arguing numbers instead of arguing with steel, I would have thrown myself on my sword when my father dismissed me from the Kingsguard.”

“It was my understanding that King Tommen was responsible for dismissing you from the Kingsguard,” the man lounging at the other side of the pool commented. The stranger had taken his place in the pool before Jaime had arrived, and he was reclining with his head back. Jaime had been so eager to slip into the water that he hadn't paid the man any attention except to notice he was there.

With a bitter smile as he took a cloth and a bit of soap to wash himself with, Jaime announced, “My father is capable of performing an excellent form of magic in which King Tommen opens his mouth and Tywin Lannister’s voice emerges.”

“It was also my understanding that you didn’t put up much of a fight,” the man hummed.

“I have spent my life as a Kingsguard, and I’ve outlived three kings. If the pattern persisted, I would outlive the next three, as well, and two of them would be mad. I don’t know if you’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting a mad king, but let me assure you that they are vile, despicable creatures, and their madness is contagious. I was given an out, and by the gods I took it, yes.”

The man gave a quiet chuckle, then declared, “I used to think I wanted to be a part of all that. If Winterfell and the Starks have taught me anything, though, it’s that it’s best to run the other way screaming when people holding any sort of power approach.”

“Smart man,” Jaime allowed, finally taking a look at his companion. And he almost choked on his own tongue and drowned.

The ghost of Robert Baratheon was lounging across from him in the pool, head back, arms propped up on the pool’s ledge, and his eyes closed. He was young and whole and…

Not Robert Baratheon, Jaime realized as he studied the man closely. His jaw wasn’t quite right, his hair was a shade darker, and he was far more fit than Robert had ever been, even during the Rebellion.

“I apologize, I’m afraid I’ve wasted the entirety of my manners on wildlings and northern lords today. You know of me, obviously, and you are...?”

“Gendry Waters,” the man wearily replied as his Baratheon Blue eyes opened and settled on Jaime.

“Waters…”

The man nodded. “Born and raised in King’s Landing.”

“And how did a bastard boy from King’s Landing gain entrance to the private baths of the Lords and Ladies of Winterfell?” Jaime asked with a grim smile.

Gendry Waters shrugged, his wide, thick shoulders causing water to splash out of the pool. “My master sent me for the Black soon after your second king died. Your brother, when he was acting as Hand of the King, sent Yorren up with every man he could find from King’s Landing. The Starks have always been friends of the Night’s Watch, and they allowed us into Winterfell for beds and a meal on our way north. Eddard Stark had returned from his visit to the Wall, by then, and was gathering his bannermen to form a war council to deal with the Others. He discovered I was an apprentice armorer and snatched me from Yorren. Put me in the forge with Mikkin so I could complete my apprenticeship and serve the Night’s Watch by providing them with quality weapons.”

_Eddard Stark recognized Robert’s bastard son and took him for himself. That man has a talent for collecting people._

“That was kind of him,” was what Jaime said out loud.

Unconcerned, the man leaned his head back and again closed his eyes. “The Starks have an unusual predilection for bastards,” he told Jaime. “That, and… well, there weren’t so many people in Winterfell, at first. Eddard Stark sent every man he could to the Wall, and the rest went to call on Lord Stark’s banners. The lot which remained could fill a single table in the feast hall.”

“You grew close with them,” Jaime recognized.

“Aye. Robb Stark taught me to properly swing a sword. Sansas Stark taught me to read.  Arya and Bran told me all the history in the north. When Bran started having his green dreams, I was the one they were going to send Beyond the Wall with him and Jon. Mikken took ill right before we were going to set out, though…”

Jaime wondered if they boy had _any_ knowledge of his true parentage. Eddard Stark wouldn’t keep something like to himself, would he? Especially not with Mad Joffrey sitting the Iron Throne and the Baratheon brothers making a mess of the Stormlands.

“Do the Starks have any other pets they’ve snatched away from the Night’s Watch?”

The man frowned at Jaime’s words, but didn’t seem too offended by Jaime’s cruel language. “Just the one,” he told Jaime, his frown growing more fierce.

“Oh?”

“Jaqen H’ghar,” the man recited.

Jaime recognized the name. “Arya Stark’s dancing master?” he asked.

Gendry snorted. “The only people who believe he’s teaching her to dance are Lady Sansa and Lady Stark.”

Eyebrow raising, Jaime asked, “What _is_ he teaching her, then?”

“Killing people, as far as I can tell.”

“Is that so?” Jaime asked doubtfully.

Gendry replied with a mean smile. “He came up with the lot from King’s Landing. Yorren found him in the Black Cells. He wouldn’t tell anyone what he’d done to get arrested, and the other two chained up with him died strange while we were on the King’s Road. Arya, the little shit, didn’t care. He had strange hair, and a strange accent, and she wanted to know _everything_ about what he’d seen of the world, and then she helped him escape his chains and he saved _her_ from wildlings. Lord Stark seemed to think that meant the man was fit to teach his daughter to fight.”

Settling against the edge of the pool, Jaime announced, “You see? This is vastly more entertaining than negotiating with the Lords of the North.”

“There’s nothing more entertaining than Lady Arya,” Gendry agreed.

“She doesn’t like being referred to as _Lady_ ,” Jaime informed the man.

With a grin, he replied, “I know.”

* * *

 

“I can try speaking with the Tyrells,” Jaime told Robb Stark. “No - better yet, I’ll have _Tyrion_ speak with the Tyrells. He is _very_ good at convincing people that they want to take part in conflicts they have no true interest in.”

“Your father-”

“My father is unsympathetic,” Jaime plainly informed him. “If he were moved by the north’s plight, he would not have sent me, I assure you.”

Clearly frustrated, Robb ran an irritated hand through his curly hair, already mussed from having a hand through it a dozen times before during the day. He asked, “Why _did_ he send you, then?”

“To make it _look_ like he was seriously concerned, and to punishing me for refusing his attempts to arrange a marriage for me.”

Robb collapsed into his chair, putting his face in his hands. Jaime thought he recognized the mutterings of _Lying, dishonorable, back-stabbing southmen_. Then, “We can’t continue in this way,” he groaned into his hands. “Nobody wants to fight, nobody wants to contribute - nobody understands what these things are capable of.”

“My father may not be sympathetic, but I _am_ ,” Jaime reiterated. “And if I ask my brother to do this for us, he _will_. Because unlike my dear sister, by brother is not a rotten cunt.”

“Do you know of anyone, _anyone else in the world_ , who might be willing to help us?” Robb begged.

“I suggest sending for recruits from Old Town,” Jaime advised. “If more Maesters are called upon to serve at the wall, the Citadel might be more amenable to encouraging the small folk of Old Town to join the Night’s Watch - the Citadel is just as eager to protect their interests as any other institution, and the Maesters hold sway over lords and smallfolk alike. You said your father and the Watch have been rebuilding the strongholds along the wall? Call upon the Citadel to supply a Maester for each, then three additional Maesters to assist in Winterfell, as your current Maester must be overwhelmed by the numbers currently occupying and surrounding the castle. If you call for thirty or forty Maesters, the Citadel might begin taking you more seriously, and if they lend truth to your cause, others will follow.”

Robb Stark let out a long, slow breath. Then, he said, “You may dislike politics, Ser Jaime, but you know them well.”

“I had to stand in court for twenty years,” he bitterly replied. “If I didn’t know politics well, I’d be dead.”

* * *

 

“It matters not how many we save if we don’t have the supplies to keep those bodies alive!” Greatjon Umber roared. “More people - smallfolk of the north and wildlings alike - arrive every day. And not just in Winterfell -- they’ve started setting up camps outside of every great hold in the north!”

“It is our duty to provide shelter-” Robb Stark calmly and quietly asserted.

“Aye, shelter!” the Greatjon snarled. “But once they find shelter and grow warm by their fires and remember what it means to be alive and not freezing their bloody balls off, they start wanting food! And when they don’t get it, they take it! Between the lonely frozen wanting shelter and the warm and hungry lot, there’s no meeting their demands and needs, let alone our own!”

“The wildlings-” Robb tried.

“It isn’t the wildlings!” Galbert Glover snarled as he stood. “The wildlings are fine enough - they’re constantly on the move, they’re apt at hunting and foraging for themselves, and they don’t like coming near us any more than we like going near them! It’s the Thenns!”

“ _T_ _he Thenns!_ ” several lords yelled in agreement.

Emboldened, Glover began to pace around the hall, looking into the eyes of every man he passed, drawing them into his rage if not with his words, than with his emotion - the Northmen certainly loved their anger, Jaime was learning.

“Those things aren’t like the other wildlings! The Thenns had towns and settlements above the wall, and they have a taste for property and land! Now they’re trying to bring their savage life to our lands at the expense of _our people’s livelihoods_! In the true manner of the wildlings, they _take_ what they want, with no regard to the way of trade or commerce or basic fucking decency!”

At this, Robb stood. “The Thenns are killing smallfolk?” he loudly asked.

“No, my Lord,” the Greatjon called, joining in Glover’s pacing around the hall. “They’re _very_ careful of upholding those demands of the accord! They kill none, they simply ransack villages and homes, take everything of value, and leave the smallfolk to take refuge in the shadows of the great keeps!”

“Your smallfolk come to you from desperation,” Lady Mormont stated, her high little voice echoing with an authority that many men of the north strove to emulate. “The Thenn attack the smallfolk out of desperation. The people refuse to trade with the Thenn out of desperation and _fear_. As you said, Lord Umber. Life means nothing if there is no survival.”

“And survival is nothing without an understanding of partnership and community and the rules of basic _fucking_ trade!” Greatjon roared. “They take and take and _take_ , until there is nothing left to give, to _anyone_ , _anywhere_!”

“There’s no trade, from anywhere,” Glover solemnly stated in a booming voice.

Jaime gave a great sigh and sagged into his seat when this statement was met with cries of disagreement.

 _Lannister!_ people called.

_The south knows!_

_They’ll send us what we need! They’ll save the people! They’ll give us their armies! They’ll send their gold! They’re here! They see Winter! They will provide!_

The Greatjon silenced the hall with a roar. When the people fell silent, he turned his steely gaze on Jaime.

If the Umber meant to be intimidating, he should have done so after experiencing the disapproval of Tywin Lannister. As the northman had clearly never been in the presence of Jaime’s father, however, the look the Greatjon turned against him seemed more a pout than a glower.

“You, _Lord Lannister_ ,” he disdainfully spat. “You ride from the riverlands, where crops grow well throughout autumn and into winter. Your house is supplied by the Tyrells, their lands even further south than your own and capable of producing meal for _years_ into winter. Yet instead of food, you give us _men_. More men to clothe and house and feed, but without sustenance.”

Despite Jaime’s apathy before the man’s snarl, the people of the north murmured amongst each other, spreading doubt.

Slowly standing so that he might meet the accusation at eye level, Jaime declared, “The lands to the south flourish for far longer than the lands of the north, yes. But the lands of the south have a greater number of people than the north. For every man in the north, there are twenty in the south. You speak of life, but you would have twenty men starve for the wellbeing of one?”

“Better to starve in the sun and the warmth than in the dark and the cold,” one lord muttered. “Better to have _something_ rather than _nothing_.”

“But there _is_ something in the north,” Jaime argued, drawing on the memory of his brother’s logic and Tyrion’s mastery of words to carry him through this _nightmare_.

Jaime had served kings and commanded armies. He had cut down enemies and carried others up to greatness. This argument over wheat and grain was beyond him, however, and he longed to draw his sword and silence the Umbers and the Glovers with his steel rather than with placations and promises. Words were empty, but steel was strong and true.

Steel meant blood, however, and the worst part was that Jaime did not wish harm upon these people. He’d been in the north long enough, he’d seen enough of it, and he’d learned enough of it that he loved it. He loved the cold, he loved the violence, and he loved the madness. It was all contrary to everything Jaime Lannister had ever learned or been taught, but it seemed more true than any of that, all the same. The north was survival, and honor, and survival despite honor. Or because of honor.

Whichever, it was raw and beautiful and real, and it was everywhere. It was a taste of life which was purely life, and little more. Warmth amongst the cold, light on the dark, people with people. Perfect, and violent, and unforgiving.

It was everything which Jaime loved.

“What?” Glover pressed, nearly foaming at the mouth. “What is in the north? What life? What light?”

“The gardens,” Jaime supplied. “The glass gardens. Even as the food supply of Winterfell dwindles, the glass gardens produce _something_ , more than any that the natural northland is capable of. It certainly isn’t enough to supply food for thousands, but then… It is not of the size _for_ thousands. It is of the size for dozens, and it exists only here, in Winterfell. Why is there not a glass garden at every castle, in every keep? Why can’t the glass garden in Winterfell be improved upon? The Lannisters and the Tyrell can provide some grain, yes, but not enough. Never enough. But my family's connections with _other_ families and other lands could give you exactly what your people need to secure glass gardens and a bit of _something_ everywhere in the north.”

“Ah, so the Thenns can ravage those, as well,” Umber laughed. “You can give us glass gardens? Good. But unless there’s some magic in the south which will quiet those heathens, your gifts are fucking useless.”

* * *

 

“How are your lessons on the Old Tongue coming along?” Jaime asked.

“Well enough,” Arya absently replied as she put her attention to sharpening the end of her spear. “The Thenns in Winterfell don’t threaten to cut out my tongue when I speak it these day.”

“Would the wild Thenns, if you were to treat with them?”

 _That_ got her attention. “What are you on about?” she asked with a frown.

“I’m calling in your debt,” he replied.

“ _What_ debt?” she asked.

“The debt you owe me for keeping my mouth closed with your mother,” Jaime informed her.

She didn’t argue or seem offended in the least, like he thought she might be - most people in Winterfell kept their mouths shut _without_ demanding repayment for the service.

“What do you want me treating with Thenns for?” she asked.

“For your people,” he replied. “The people of the north.”

“What do you care about the people of the north?” she laughed.

“I care for their opinions of me and my family, and I don’t appreciate being laughed at in court-”

“We don’t have _court_ here.”

“-so I want you to treat with the Thenns and convince them to engage in honest trade with people, rather than pillaging,” he finished.

Now the woman was confused. “They don’t pillage, though. They hunt and forage.”

“The Thenns near Winterfell do, yes. In other areas of the north, they pillage. They’re stealing what little crop and livestock the smallfolk-”

“Gods, this is about people asking for supplies from the south!” the girl snarled. “And you’re unwilling to assist-”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “They _refused_ my assistance, stupid girl. I offered to negotiate for supplies to build glass gardens, and I was told not to bother because of the Thenn’s attacks.”

Eyes narrowed, she asked, “Truly?”

“Ask anyone who was at court-”

“It’s _council_ , not court!”

“-the discussion was quite public.”

“Fine, then! I’ll go and treat with the Thenns! And my debt or whatever will be paid in full, understand?”

Jaime nodded.

“Even if I’m unsuccessful or come back with demands from the Thenns themselves,” she added.

Jaime nodded. “Considering these are conversations I could not hold myself, I find those terms acceptable.”

“Good. Now get out. I have a journey to prepare for and excuses to make.”

“Don’t die,” Jaime commanded.

“I will promise nothing of the sort, stupid.”


	4. Chapter 4

Jaime wasn’t sure how Lady Stark and Sansa Stark were unaware of Arya’s coming and goings, except that it seemed that many people were working to help her keep her secrets from them.

Lady Stark’s time was mostly spent conducting the castle and city, and Sansa seemed to have created her own little court with the daughters of visiting lords and bannermen. Therefore, Sansa didn't notice that Arya spent an uncommon amount of time with soldiers and freefolk, and Lady Stark didn't have the _time_ to notice.

The woman was even called to stand in mediation during a trial which was held between a northman and a wildling, the northman claiming that his daughter had been raped and the wildling claiming that he was married to the girl.

“Of course they’re married,” Arya had finally said after listening to the two men argue. “I saw her myself last time I went beyond Winterfell. She was all cozied up with the other pregnant women and sewing baby furs for the runts. She didn’t even use the knife I gave her to stick him and escape!”

Robb didn’t seem to know how to react when a highborn woman, his sister, stood in defense of a wildling accused of kidnapping and rape, but Arya didn’t wait for his judgement, instead beginning to argue a personal _accord_ (Jaime was learning that in the north, accords were considered inarguable agreements, unbreakable even by the gods) between the wildling and the stolen girl’s father. By the end, instead of any innocence or guilt being placed, or a beheading being demanded, the two men shook hands and walked away as business partners. The northman declared that whenever there was a hard snow, the wildling, his daughter, and his future grandchild would have shelter in his home, and in return the wildling would provide him with a portion of whatever catches he made during hunts.

 _If this had been Joffrey’s court, the one would have been gelded and the other forced to give the severed member to his daughter as a gift_ , Jaime thought as he watched the proceedings with a sort of bitter fascination. _If it had been Tommen’s court, my father would have demanded a marriage between the woman and her rapist and a dowry provided from the father without so much as laying eyes on the woman, let alone concerning himself with what she felt about any of it._

Jaime may not have been one for listening to the bickering of the high lords, but he found himself mesmerized by the wildlings, how they conducted themselves and the strange sort of honor they upheld. And watching the littlest Lady Stark interact with them and the Northmen was entertaining as well.

At another mediation, she got into a screaming match with a wildling woman about _knife rights_ , whatever those were, which ended with both of the women being bodily carried from the hall and set out in the snow for several moments to _cool off_ , and when they were allowed back in, they finished the discussion in low tones and short clipped speech as they shivered from the cold which lingered over them.

“Honestly, how is the Lady Stark unaware of these proceedings?” Jaime asked of the Mormont girl who was seated next to him.

The hall was full to the brim with people, all of them seeming much more engaged in the current discussion than they had with any of the proceedings thus far that day. He was sure there would be conversation of little else at supper that evening.

“At first it was a joke,” the girl said with amusement in her eyes even though her mouth was drawn in a firm line. “Or a game, I suppose. There were few of us here in the beginning, and as the cold set in there was little by way of amusement. The men placed bets on how long it would take Lady Stark to realize the situation, and then they made wagers on what form the Lady’s wrath would take. As more and more people settled in Winterfell, however, Lady Stark became increasingly engaged with running the household and assisting people in the city, and tensions between the wildlings and the Northmen grew more tense. Before long, Lady Stark discovering Arya’s accords with the wildlings would have resulted in a loss of the peace. She has _some_ idea - Arya Stark has always had a taste for adventure, apparently - but Lady Stark cannot learn the true nature of the situation else she may attempt to keep Arya in the castle, and chaos would ensue.”

Jaime watched as Arya and the wildling woman came to some kind of agreement, glaring hotly at each other all the while.

* * *

 Jaime was surprised he didn’t meet Jon Snow sooner. The Starks, their bannermen, the smallfolk, the wildlings - everyone spoke of him constantly. He was probably the most well loved bastard in all the seven kingdoms. He traveled the land of the frozen north - he didn’t have the same kind of natural accord with the wildlings as his sister Arya did, but he’d managed to gain their respect, regardless. The smallfolk found him kind and generous, and the noble houses thought him diligent and honorable. He’d traveled to and from the Wall half a dozen times, and beyond the wall once for two years. He’d ridden to almost every major stronghold at some time, and he’d made it his personal mission to escort wildlings and smallfolk alike to the safety of Winterfell.

The first time Jaime met Snow, the bastard was helping his brother Robb take Rickon from the baths and preparing to enter them himself, looking tired and worn as he helped dress his brother then began removing his own furs and armor as if it were a chore, and as if _he_ were the cripple who needed help. Robb's two eldest son's ran about their father's feet as he worked, and Jon gave the two boys indulgent smiles.

Jaime immediately recognized the man as Jon Snow, the very picture of a tortured Stark. His demeanor was almost the opposite of what Jaime expected from the Beloved Bastard.

“Long day, Snow?” he drawled as he began removing his own clothes.

“Long night,” the other man shortly replied.

Robb was now carrying Bran from the chamber, his sons trailing behind, and Jaime noticed that even though Jon looked exhausted, he was watching his family like a hawk as if poised to defend them from an attack.

Jaime recognized the expression, surprised to realize it was similar to the expression one of his favorite squires had worn after the first time the boy had followed him into battle. For weeks afterwards, the boy had seemed poised to throw himself before the sword every time Jaime took a hit, even though the boy was only watching him spar.

Snow relaxed almost as soon as his brothers were out of sight.

“That’s right,” Jaime drawled. “You accompanied Bran and Robb north of the Wall for Bran’s green seer training.”

“Aye,” Snow wearily responded as they finished grabbing soap and clean cloths for drying after.

Jaime didn’t speak as they made their way to one of the large pools (Sansa had put something floral in the water. They’d all smell like Dornish whores for the next week).

Once they were comfortably settled in the water, Jaime asked, “Is that when Bran lost his legs?”

“That’s right,” Jon replied, methodically running the soap through his hair and over his neck. “We were hiking a pass- just another fucking pass, like a dozen we’d hiked before. Bran was rushing the thing, like he did with them all. Robb and I always moved more slowly, and by the time we reached the top he’d already be halfway up a mountain, looking over the world. There was no warning, nothing we could tell that set it in motion, but the snow collapsed and began to fall. It wasn’t even near him, at first. Robb and I were on the pass still, well out of the way, but more and more snow rushed down, and I swear it looked like the entire mountain was turning to powder. It took us two days to dig him out, and by then we’d been in one place long enough for the weights to notice us, so when we pulled him out we didn’t even have the option of taking him back to the Wall. We just had to keep going forward.”

“You blame yourself,” Jaime noted.

“Not anymore,” Jon told him. “I still wish I could have done something to protect him, but… Bran says that some things are inevitable, and there was no possibility in existence where he kept his ability to walk.”

“Is that why you spend your nights riding into the waste and guiding people to safety?” Jaime asked.

“Some of it,” Jon allowed. “Seeing the army of weights is the rest. We need every life living, no matter how insignificant or vile. Every life we keep is one they don’t take.”

Jaime hadn’t seen resolution like that in a man since Tyrion had promised him to do everything in his power to draw Cersei out of her madness. Jaime couldn’t do it, Tywin couldn’t, her two living children couldn’t… If the people she loved couldn’t save her, then maybe the person she hated _could_. Tyrion met the impossible task with bravery, just as Jon Snow met his impossible task the same.

“The Beloved Bastard,” Jaime drawled with a grin. “More Beloved than Bastard at this point, I think.”

The man gave a wry, bitter grin. “To some, maybe. But not always to those who matter. And you, Jaime Lannister? Are you more King or Slayer?”

“Slayer, certainly. To those who matter, and to those who don’t alike.”

“I don’t know,” Snow told him with a grin. “The wildlings seem taken with you, with all that shiny gold armor and your blond hair. Did you know some of them still thought the Targaryens held the Iron Throne? They asked where your dragon was after they first saw you.”

His eyes narrowing, Jaime asked, “That sounds like the beginning of a dirty joke.”

His grin widening, Jon told him, “The wildlings didn’t mean it as such, but then one of them asked Arya.”

Jaime’s head fell back as he released a miserable groan.

* * *

Eddard Stark and his bannermen arrived in Winterfell after only a few short weeks of battle. Apparently, the Boltons and their wildlings had done a fine job of tearing apart not only the smallfolk in the hills surrounding the Dreadfort, but of tearing apart each other, as well. Lord Stark reported a quick and easy victory and the Bolton’s destroyed.

“The Dreadfort,” he announced, “will go to Theon Greyjoy, soon to be Stoy, upon his marriage to my daughter, Sansa Stark. As promised before our men rode out, the wedding will occur within a fortnight.”

“Stoy?” Jaime asked of Jon Snow. “The combination of Stark and Greyjoy, I assume?”

The bastard nodded. “When word of the White Walkers came, Theon and several of our other bannermen went to entreat assistance of Balon Greyjoy and his fleet. The family reunion was _not_ pleasant. Apparently, upon Theon being taken hostage, Balon saw it as the death of his youngest son. Father’s other bannermen were able to convince Balon to send ships, supplies, and men to the Watch, but he wouldn’t even treat with his own son. Father decided that if Greyjoy didn’t want Theon, the Starks would take him.”

If the stories told around the hall that night were true, Theon wasn’t terribly upset by his family’s rejection. He had eagerly followed Eddard Stark into battle and had fought bravely against the rouge wildlings and Boltons, along with Eddard Stark’s youngest son, Rickon, who had joined them on their march. Theon and Rickon had then spent three harrowing weeks in the hills around the Dreadfort searching for wildlings who had run from the Dreadfort battle. At one point, they encountered several men who had deserted the Night’s Watch, and Theon had performed his first beheading.

“Sansa’s not happy about the match,” Jon revealed to him. “She knows Theon too well to think he’ll sweep her off her feet and love her like the knights in those songs she’s always mooning over. I think they’ll make a good marriage, though. Sansa won’t let him run roughshod over her, and he’s already terrified of disappointing her and giving cause for father to revoke his agreement.”

Jaime’s eyebrow rose as he studied Eddard Stark’s bastard.

“I find it rather surprising that your father isn’t giving _you_ the Dreadfort, as you _are_ his son, and Theon Greyjoy was his hostage.”

The man shrugged, unconcerned. “It’s easier to be where I need to be when I don’t hold any lands or titles, I’ve found. Easier to assist whichever mad brother or father or sister on their mad adventures.”

Jaime realized that Jon’s smile was turned to his sister, Arya, where she sat dining with a group of fierce looking wildlings.

* * *

Theon Greyjoy’s marriage to Sansa Stark was a grand celebration. Everyone loved Sansa, the very vision of a perfect, proper Lady. The wildlings were fascinated by her, and the smallfolk wanted to be her. Then, Theon Greyjoy had won the respect and admiration of a good number of Stark bannermen and soldiers during the Dreadfort battle.

Sansa worshiped the Seven, after her Tully mother, and the sept was overflowing on the day of the ceremony. Jaime attended only because he was future Lord of Casterly Rock, and it was expected of him. However, a great many others watched avidly, with pride or tears in their eyes, and Theon Greyjoy and Sansas Stark became Theon and Sansa Stoy.

The feast which followed was far more grand than any held for Robert Baratheon on his last visit, and the merriment was far more entertaining. Wildlings competed with minstrels and singers for best song and dance. Fifteen different kinds of beer and wine and ale were available, and Catelyn Stark announced that warm bread and fresh meat was being served to the smallfolk, wildlings, and soldiers camped in WinterTown.

Later, Ned Stark revealed the Stoy banner, hills and a silhouette of the Dreadfort in black and Stark blue. Theon accepted it with a wide, prideful grin, and swore an oath to protect and uphold the traditions of the North with the same fervor in which he would protect and care for his new wife. Sansa’s mouth twitched in the way a Lady twitched when she wanted to roll her eyes or hit something, but she laughed when her new husband pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.

Jaime met Tormund that night, the man a fierce wildling who reminded him a bit of Tyrion - not because of his wit, but because of his bluntness, and his habit of using the truth of things to wound people. They challenged each other to a fight after several drinks too many, but sobered quickly enough when live steel was drawn. It wasn’t a true fight - a wildling couldn’t kill a southern highborn, and a southern highborn couldn’t kill a well respected wildling without starting a war of some kind. But they compared strength and made a show of taunting each other until they and everyone watching were laughing.

“That was no proper fight,” Arya Stark announced with a pout by the end of it, and she kicked them both for their japing.

Jaime watched, laughing, as Tormund responded by picking her up and pretending to carry her off, the girl snapping and snarling at him the whole time, and eventually driving her knee into his chest hard enough to make him drop her.

“Sorry, boys,” Tormund called to the cheering crowd of men around them. “It appears that I won’t be taking a new wife tonight!”


	5. Chapter 5

“Weights,” Eddard Stark grimly announced, “have been encountered south of the wall.”

The uproar was immediate and overwhelming. People were crying out, yelling, jumping from their seats - Jaime sat unnaturally still, though. The horror filling his chest, the dread settling in his stomach, it was the same, the _exact same_ as when he heard the Mad King breathe _Burn them all._

He had to do something.

Eddard Stark roared, and the hall went quiet.

“They were destroyed! It was only a small group made of wildling weights. Mance Rayder believes that the group was enacting his plan to overtake the Wall from before the accords were struck. They were destroyed, but...I have decided that in order to best protect the Wall and more importantly the North, as is my duty, I will be taking the Black,” he announced, “and my son, Robb, will be Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

The sound Catelyn Stark made was gut wrenching.

Eddard didn’t look at his wife as he continued, stating, “Jon Snow and Rickon Stark will take men to the wall - Jon with Northman, Rickon with a contingent of wildlings. They will patrol the lands south of the wall to ensure that no other weights have crossed.”

“I’m going, as well!” Arya Stark declared, standing.

“Arya Stark, sit down!” Catelyn Stark called, her tone shrill.

“I will not!” the madwoman declared. “I will not hide behind Winterfell’s walls - not when I have greater accords with the Thenns and the giants than any other wildling or Northmen alike. I _will_ protect our lands from those horrors!”

Catelyn Stark was yelling again, protesting with a dozen others. Jaime recognized the firm stance of Arya’s feet, though, and her clenched fists and the steely look in her eye. She would not be moved.

A dozen others recognized her posture, as well. Even as he shook his head and argued against his daughter, Eddard Stark’s shoulders had fallen in resignation. Jon Snow was watching the arguing with pursed lips and wide, helpless eyes. Rickon Stark had taken a stance next to his sister, a gleeful, triumphant smile stretched across his lips, and Jaime knew the boy intended to invite Arya to join him in his wild madness.

Looking again to Arya, Jaime realized that given half a chance, she’d gladly follow the boy.

He was standing before the thought had fully formed in his mind.

“No!” he called. “You will be going south, with me.”

Silence fell over the hall, and Arya turned to him with a killing look in her eyes.

“You would suggest,” she said quietly, slowly, her rage and wrath audible in every word, “that I abandon my home and people to _destruction_ so that I could run south and do _what_ ? Cower in some castle and _pray_ for my people rather than _helping_ them?”

“No. I would suggest that you ride out to your Thenns, and your giants, and to every other wildling you can treat with, and inform them that Casterly Rock will offer asylum to women and children for the remainder of the accords, that those women and children will require a party of men to protect them, and that you will be acting as emissary between the freefolk and the southerners for the duration of their time in Casterly Rock.”

“Horse shit,” the woman snarled. “I know you, Jaime Lannister, and I know you don’t make grand gestures of-of _kindness_ or _generosity._ What is it that you expect to gain from this, exactly?”

“As you said, Lady Stark, there is much petty war in the south. Casterly Rock stands to gain additional protectors from invading armies if the wildlings agree to take refuge in Lannister lands. And with Lannisters running from the north with wildlings in tow, the southerners will be far more inclined to take action against the Others and assist the north in their efforts.”

“You’ve listed what Casterly Rock gets, and what the North gets, and what the freefolk get, but what do _you_ get?” Arya reiterated.

“A wife, of course!” he replied with a sharp grin.

Now, the woman ran at him, screaming as she drew a knife. She never made it to him, though. His announcement had sent the hall roaring again, and there were too many people between Jaime and Arya for the woman to get anywhere near him, and there were too many people who wanted refuge in the south the let her kill him, besides.

Rickon made it to him, though, and Jaime allowed the boy to get in one good hit before Jaime began fighting back, laughing the entire time.

* * *

“What have you _done_?” Tormund asked when Jaime appeared at his hut that evening.

Tormund pulled him inside before anyone could see him, and Jaime sank into the furs next to the fire with a relieved sigh -- he’d _barely_ escaped the castle. The night - and conversation - had progressed badly after his proposal to Arya Stark.

People were panicking at the news of White Walkers south of the wall and Eddard Stark declaring himself for the Night’s Watch. Wildlings were panicking about Arya Stark’s refusal to marry him in exchange for getting them safely out of the North. Rickon Stark had tried to kill him no less than three times.

“If Arya Stark doesn’t marry you, this could start a war,” Tormund was snarling. “This could ruin the accords, thousands of people could be killed in the fighting - and we can’t spare a single life. Not if there are weights beneath the wall!”

“Seven hells, stop yelling,” Jaime sighed. “I’ve had enough of shouting for the evening, thank you. If you wish to make your point, do it with a blade.”

“I’ve half a mind to do just that, with the dullest knife I can find! How do you intend to make this right?” Tormund demanded.

“With your help, of course,” Jaime replied with a grin. “Come, friend, pour us some ale and have a talk with me.”

“A talk about what?” the man suspiciously asked.

“About the proper procedure for carrying women off,” Jaime replied.

Slowly, a grin began to stretch across Tormund’s face to mirror Jaime’s own.

* * *

 It took several weeks to work out a plan. Jaime wasn’t much for strategy, and he preferred to battle directly, but Tormund assured him that direct battle was what carrying women off mostly entailed.

It was getting into the blasted woman’s chamber which was the most difficult part. The woman slept light, so he couldn’t pick the lock to sneak in, and he wasn’t apt enough at climbing to get in through the window.

And he _could not_ let her wake up even a moment before he was upon her. She kept a knife under her pillow, he knew, and she’d been looking for an opportunity to properly stab him since his proposal.

Eventually, it occurred to him that he _could_ pick the lock to gain entrance to the room. He’d have to do it while she was away, though, then he’d need to wait in the room until she arrived and fell asleep.

Jaime never thought his time standing in court as a Kingsguard would ever gift him with any ability, but remaining quiet and still was not so difficult, he found as he waited for his future wife to enter the chambers.

Jaime had been keeping a _very_ close eye on the woman’s schedule the past weeks, and he knew that today, she would be exhausted upon returning to her rooms. She’d spent the morning outside Winterfell’s walls, accompanying several giants on their patrol of the perimeter. In the afternoon, she’d gone to dancing lessons with Jaqen H’ghar. After dinner, she’d run off into the godswood with Rickon, probably to play with their wolves.

It wouldn’t take her long to fall into sleep that night, he knew. And he was right. The woman hardly bothered to remove her boots before collapsing into bed and beginning to softly snore.

He waited for a while longer, though, to be sure she was deeply asleep. Then, as quietly as he possibly could, he crept out from under her bed, timing his movements with her breath.

 _Slow_ , he reminded himself. _Have patience_.

Jaime had always been eager for battle, though, and patience was not one of his virtues.

With a grin, he allowed his shoe to scrape the floor.

Arya was upright, eyes open and a knife in her hand in a heartbeat. Jaime gave her a moment to see him, to look into his eyes, and to realize what was happening. Watching her tired gray eyes turn dark and stormy was glorious, he thought.

He’d done right in making his move when she was weak. He’d also done right in wearing armor under his furs, as the knife she trust at his side tore through animal skins then glanced off metal.

Jaime was laughing as he launched himself at her, wresting the knife from her grip, pinning her hips beneath his thighs, and struggling to grip her wrists in his. The little cunt even bit him, at one point.

“None of that now, Wife,” he demanded, then drove a fist into her temple, knocking her clean out.

* * *

 Jaime wasn’t stupid enough to take her somewhere she’d be able to run from. He still remembered their first meeting, her telling him _I put a knife in his leg and ran home_.

He checked for weapons, first, finding a knife hidden in one of her boots before slipping them onto her feet, and several long needles sewn into the hems of her winter furs. He even found a metal spine woven into the braid of her hair.

After she was suitably dressed for the cold, Jaime slung her over his shoulder and started the task of sneaking her out of the castle, following a similar path to the one she’d led him through when sneaking _into_ the castle.

He didn’t take her beyond the walls, though. He didn’t trust  have privacy beyond the walls, and he didn’t trust that he could keep her tethered to him if she had the option of running.

Instead, Jaime carried her to the crypts beneath Winterfell. He’d spent the past weeks traveling the tunnels extensively, growing familiar with the twists and turns and chambers. He’d eventually found a chamber which had only one crypt in it, and the door had been rusted shut when he discovered it -- she wouldn’t know where she was when she awoke, and if she managed to escape the room, she wouldn’t be able to find her way out of the crypts without his assistance.

Jaime had stocked the chamber with torches, furs, and upon entering the cell through its new door, he locked it and hid the key in the wall, where he’d discovered a small hole above the door, that way she couldn’t steal her escape off of him.

He tied her up before moving to light the torches along the walls and then packed cloth into the space between the door and the wall -- better to keep warmth in the room, and to keep any idiot who may pass by from seeing light under the door.

Then, Jaime sat back and waited for the _real_ battle to begin. 

* * *

Jaime let her hit and kick and curse at him until she wore herself out - he’d never seen her this angry, but he knew she wouldn’t be reasoned with until she was calm. That didn’t keep him from riling her up, though, returning her insults with japes of his own, insulting her honor, suggesting she’d already laid with wildlings before, so what did it matter if she married him? The small, fierce woman really was beautiful in her anger. It was only when she realized that he _enjoyed_ her tantrums that she lost her rage and slumped against the wall.

“Why in the seven hells are you doing this?” she asked, covering her face with her hands.

“Because I love you, and I want you, and I will have you, one way or the other,” Jaime evenly replied.

Arya gave an undignified snort at this. “When did this happen, this great love of yours?” she asked.

“Probably the first time we met, before I even saw your face or knew your name. I’ve always been rather slow in recognizing my own heart, though,” he informed her.

She replied with a jeer. “Didn’t take you long to recognize your love for your _sister_ ,” she commented.

He rolled his eyes, finding that he really felt _no_ passion for Cersei any longer. Not for who she used to be, or who she was now. “That’s because I didn’t realize that it _wasn’t_ love I felt for her. The cunt had me so twisted up and turned around, I didn’t realize that what I felt for her was hate until it was far too late.”

“What a convenient excuse,” Arya muttered. “So you finally recognized that you felt hate for her. And you discovered this after realizing it was love you felt for _me_ , and you now know that love  _conquers_ all and-”

Jaime rolled his eyes as the woman began to partake in a rather unflattering impression of her sister.

“I _have_ been in love before you,” he plainly informed her. “With Brienne of Tarth. She was everything I wanted, and everything I wanted to _be_.”

“Why didn’t you marry _her_ , then?” Arya sneered.

“Because my fucking father found out about it - he knew what had happened before I knew myself. He sent her off on some stupid fucking quest, and by the time I realized that I loved her, she was a fucking Kingsguard for Renly Baratheon.”

This captured Arya’s attention, at least. “Kingsguard? A _woman?_ ” she asked.

“That’s right. Brienne was a fucking knight - a _true_ knight. She was taller than me, wore full armor, carried a greatsword, and she was the only knight I ever knew who actually _meant_ the oaths she took, and she did her damned best to uphold them. Honestly, she probably wouldn’t have agreed to marry me even if I _had_ realized what I felt for her and acted on it. She was too good for me.”

“But I’m not?” Arya challenged.

“A wicked, nasty little brat like you? No, you’re _perfect_ for me,” he said with a mean grin. “You’re probably the only woman in the seven kingdoms who likes to fight as much as me, and I swear by the old gods and the new, with me you’ll get to do so for the rest of your life.”

She let out a long breath, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor with her face in her fur covered knees.

“Marry me,” he demanded.

“No,” she replied.

* * *

The second day, she tried to make him so enraged that _he_ would be the one to renege his proposal and storm off in a fit. She said horrible things, and nothing was off limits. She spat insults about his brother and sister, his father, the Mad King - even Brienne, a couple of times.

She was good. He came closer to hitting a woman that day than he ever had in his entire life. She quieted, though, when he told her, “Bite all you want, bitch. For some reason I still fucking love you.”

“Stupid,” she muttered at him.

“Clearly,” he snapped back.

* * *

 They didn’t talk at all on the third day, and they hardly looked at each other, either. They fought again on the fourth.

* * *

“Why don’t you understand that _I will not marry you?!_ ” Arya snapped.

“Because you _will_ marry me,” Jaime snapped back. “I stole you, properly stole you! I stole you from your bed, from your family, and soon enough I’ll steal you from the North!”

“Shut up!”

“ _You_ shut up, little girl! You belong to me!”

“I don’t - I belong to the north - I _love_ the north, and you can’t have-”

“ _I’m taking you to Casterly Rock, and I’m letting you bring everything you love about the North with you!_ ” he roared. “I will not let you be taken by the Others, you stupid, _stupid_ little girl, and when you fight it will be with me, in the south, where all of your little pets will need a _different_ kind of protecting. You don’t think this will end with the Others defeated, your father’s accords honored, and everyone you love skipping off to return to the way things were _before_ , the way they’re  _supposed to be_ , do you? It doesn’t work like that, _no_ war works like that, regardless of the enemy. Once the wildlings get a taste of warm climate, long summers, and good land, they’re not simply going to leave for Beyond the Wall again, and no one’s going to tolerate them staying Below! I’m mad for even _considering_ letting that lot below the neck, and you were right! I’m not doing it for them, or the north, or even myself! I’m doing it for _you_. If you want your people safe, you will marry me and accompany them to Casterly Rock, and you will spend the rest of your life cleaning up this mess, protecting the wildlings and Thenn and giants you love _so_ much. Because I promise you, no one else will fight for them, or barter for them, or give two shits about them!”

It took Jaime a moment to realize that Arya was crying, and the anger abruptly left him.

“Stop,” she demanded with a sob as he moved towards her.

“I will not,” he answered, his tone like Valyrian Steel as he put his arms around her and pulled her to his chest.

“I don’t want to leave,” she whispered. “I love it here.”

“As do I,” he confessed. “But I will not allow you to break yourself against the Wall. I grieve the prospect of going south, as well, but if leaving is what I need to do to keep you safe, that is what will be done.”

He held her until she fell asleep, and then held her for a while more.

* * *

On the fifth day, Jaime awoke to find only one of the torches still lit and burning, and he realized that the cold had started seeping back into the crypt. Then, he realized that Arya was still in his arms, sleeping huddled against his chest much the same as she had in the days they’d spent first traveling to Winterfell together.

“Mine,” he muttered, pressing a kiss into her messy, dirty hair.

“Stupid,” she muttered back, and Jaime chuckled.

She looked up at him, then, blinking away sleep and dreams, and settling her head on his arm. She was beautiful, of course, as always, and as Jaime had declared, she was his, so he pressed forward and kissed her.

He wasn’t sure if he was expecting her to swoon or swear, but he was not expecting the furrowed brows or _confusion_ which filled her eyes.

“I don’t understand,” she told him.

“What, kissing? Surely even your beloved wildlings show affection with kisses-”

“No. Why are you fighting so hard? For me?” she asked.

“Because I love you and you’re worth it. Although, don’t think for a moment that I won’t slit your throat if you tell anyone I’ve said so.”

As always, the threat of death made her smile.

“Marry me,” Jaime demanded.

She rolled her eyes. “We were married when you succeeded in carrying me off, stupid.”

“By freefolk standards, yes. Your parents would geld me if they found I’d bedded you without taking vows before a heart tree, and my father wouldn’t consider the marriage legitimate unless there was a septon present.”

Arya’s face twisted in distaste. “How many weddings do you want, Lannister? Shall we ask Jaqen about Lorathi ceremonies, as well?”

“Quiet, woman,” Jaime demanded. “I don’t wish for your dancing master to have any involvement in our marriage. Speaking the words in front of the weirwood with a septon present should do well enough.”

“Fine,” she groused. “We’ll have your stupid southern wedding. Just… Let’s stay here for a few moments more.”

“As you wish,” he agreed.


	6. Chapter 6

There was hooting and hollering when they entered the feast hall together. Arya actually _blushed_ , then punched him solidly when he ducked in and stole a kiss. He was laughing as she knocked him away and started stomping off towards her chambers.

Jaime thought that Eddard Stark’s opinion of him could never get worse after the man found him over a slain Targaryen King. The look he gave him just then was fit for death, however.

“Be still, Lord Stark,” Jaime demanded with a serene smile as he approached the high table. “I informed your daughter that we’d have a proper wedding, despite her insistence that being carried off _was_ a proper wedding.”

The man’s lips pursed as Jon, beside him, began to chuckle.

“How could you?” Caitlyn Stark asked with fury in her eyes. “After we’ve just received the news of White Walkers south of the Wall - how could you take her from the safety of Winterfell's walls?”

“I didn’t,” Jaime informed the woman with a smug smile. “I held her in the crypts.”

Sansa Stoy made a graceless choking noise at this pronouncement, and Jaime suddenly understood why Arya took such pleasure in shocking her elder sister.

* * *

The last Stark wedding had been held in a warm sept full of Starks and Lords of the North. This Stark wedding was held in the godswood, in ice and snow, with _thousands_ in attendance, lords, ladies, wildlings, soldiers, and giants crowding the wood. Torches burned for acres, lighting the frozen forest, and people climbed trees and sat on branches to watch as Jaime and Arya said the septon’s vows, kneeled before the heart tree, and as Jaime gave her his cloak.

When he lifted Arya into his arms once the ceremony was done, a roar went up, people calling out and hollering so loud the din could probably be heard for leagues.

Jaime carried his bride all the way to Winterfell for their feast. Then, he walked right past the banquet hall, into the towers, and to Arya’s room.

“You’re going the wrong way,” she informed him.

“I’m not,” Jaime assured.

“We’ve gone _past_ the feast,” was her exasperated reply.

“We’re not _going_ to the feast,” he archly replied.

“What? But what about-”

“The food can wait, the celebration can wait, and the people can wait. You are my wife, and I will have you,” Jaime stated, gripping her tighter as she realized what his words meant.

“For fuck’s sake, I’ve spent the past half day in this stupid uncomfortable dress, and Sansa _insisted_ in tying my hair in this stupid uncomfortable knot-”

“I can hardly tell you’re a _woman_ through all those furs you’re wearing,” Jaime commented, “let alone in a dress and with your hair done.”

“-and you intend to ruin it before anyone can even see it!” she finished.

“That’s right,” Jaime replied with a grin. “You are my wife, sworn before the gods and days before, even, and I intend to have you. Properly.”

She had one arm wrapped around Jaime’s shoulder, and her other hand was clutching at the front of his furs. He felt her grip tighten, and he heard her breath stutter.

“Now? Right now?” she murmured, and he remembered how young she was - less than half his age, and… Inexperienced, apparently.

Jaime hadn’t believed it, really. Not until that moment. A woman like Arya, beautiful and fierce, who always ran head first into danger without fear of repercussions or retribution, who spent her days huddled with wildlings, who was devoted to her exotic dancing master, who loitered around forges and spent time with the bastard sons of kings… Surely, men - handsome, young, virile men - had shown interest. Surely, she’d been curious. And brave. And reckless. Surely, she was _experienced_.

Except… apparently, she was not.

“Now,” Jaime finally brought himself to say. “Now, yes.”

In her chambers, he set her down and she scrambled away from him, then held still as he began to remove his furs.

“Are you bashful?” he teased. “ _Now_? We’ve been naked together dozens of times, in the bathes-”

“It’s not the same,” she quietly insisted.

“Isn’t it? You mean you haven’t looked, even for a moment? You haven’t considered?”

“Of course not!” she indignantly declared.

“ _Of course not_ ,” Jaime mocked. “I’m sure naked flesh is little more than one of those oh-so- _simple_ things which you’ve always been prone to absently dismiss. Like treating people with common courtesies or acting interested when a highborn wants to discuss something of _paramount importance_ with you.”

Sure enough, the girl gave an uneasy shrug in reply. “Flesh is flesh,” she stated. “Sometimes it’s pretty, sometimes it’s not. And people spend a ridiculous amount of time rubbing their flesh together, as if it’s better or more useful than fighting with weapons. It’s _stupid_ ,” she finally declared.

Jaime treated her with a dark laugh as he finally threw off his undershirt and trousers. He wore little more than his smallclothes, then, while Arya was still fully clothed in furs and, apparently, a dress.

“You have no idea of the possibilities,” he informed her as he moved forward and began untying her cloak, then unwrapping her furs, and pulling at the strings of her ridiculously complicated dress.

She stood stiffly, allowing the unveiling but not enjoying it, watching the entire event as if waiting for a knife to appear or for Jaime to turn into a demon of some kind.

He slowly and carefully removed her furs before working at the dress. Then, her slip and underclothes.

Finally, they were both in smallclothes, Arya standing tall and resolute, but unhappy, and Jaime inspecting her slight form with a hungry, expectant gaze.

Stepping up to her, he pressed himself against her from knee to shoulder, feeling her warmth against his as he took her face in his hands, tilted her face up, and murmured, “Silly, stupid, wonderful girl,” against her skin before taking her lips in his, wrapping his arms around her, and devouring her.

* * *

She was quiet and complacent, at first, barely responding when Jaime kissed or touched her, allowing him to pick her up and place her on the small bed, simply tolerating and accepting what was happening, rather than participating.

He had to work for her, as he had be required to work for her in every other way. He had to search for the spots of skin which tickled her, the places which made her start and gasp, the places that drew gasps and whimpers of surprise. She had small breasts, and didn’t seem impressed when he licked at her pert nipples. There was a place on her lower stomach, just above her hip which made her jerk and cry out in surprise when he pressed his thumb there, though. Her shoulders and back were a veritable mine, his fingers against one stretch of skin making her shudder, and his teeth nipping at the same place making her cry out and arch.

She didn’t enjoy the attention he paid to the thin, dark hair which was nestled between her thighs. Jaime could tell that she liked when he ran his fingers through the curls, but even as she closed her eyes and sighed, her muscles grew tense and she held herself strangely still.

As he nosed at her clit and drew breath against the soft skin inside her thighs, he realized that it was the tenderness of the action which made her uncomfortable - _of course_ she was familiar with the act of coupling. Winterfell was so crowded, and the freefolk were so open about such acts, she’d doubtlessly witnessed people rutting with each other dozens of times. Jaime doubted that such displays were ever slow or tender, though, and she probably understood little of this kind of intimacy. The slow, exploratory kind, where people felt each other just to _feel_ , and not to have.

Jaime _did_ have her, of course. But only after she began to gasp and writhe, when she was almost out of her mind from the sensation and pleasure which she could hardly understand. She let out a long breath when Jaime finally pushed inside of her, seeming to take relief from the discomfort and pain of it.

Jaime loved her. He _loved_ that she appreciated the pain just as much as the pleasure, and that he didn’t have to pace himself or hold back. She simply took, and took, and took, everything that he gave.

He hadn’t been with a woman in years, and he was disappointed by how _quickly_ he came, but his wife didn’t seem to mind when he used a rough, quick hand to finish her off. The sound she made was one of surprise as she began to shudder, and he laughed at the confused, wide eyed gaze she turned to the ceiling, afterwards.

“That was even better than falling,” she said breathlessly.

“That’s right,” Jaime told her with a content hum as he stretched.

“Can you do that again?” she asked.

Jaime gave her a large, greedy smile. “I can. And I will. After the feast.”

“ _Now_ ,” she petulantly demanded.

“ _No_ ,” he answered, smacking her hip as he rolled from the bed and went to find a cloth to clean them. “I’ve worked up an appetite, and I’ve a thirst for that burning liquor that Tormund favors. After food, and drink, and dance, we will go again.”

The girl muttered mutinously, and she gathered her clothes and shoved them onto her body unceremoniously as she grumbled.

 _Perfect_ , he reminded himself with a satisfied smile as he began to redress, as well.

* * *

If skipping the beginning of the feast to have his wife wasn’t satisfying before, it certainly was after arriving at the banquet and seeing the expression on Eddard Stark’s face as he realized _why,_ exactly, his daughter and her new husband had been absent for the first minutes of the feast. It wasn’t hard to discern - Arya’s hair was a right mess, there was still color on her cheeks, and Jaime was definitely walking with more satisfied swagger than usual.

“Good time for a wedding,” Theon Stoy informed him as Jaime and Arya took their places next to the other Stark daughter and her husband at the high table. “Didn’t think people could be so merry, knowing…”

Jaime was surprised when Sansa Stoy leaned over her husband and set a gracious hand on Jaime’s arm. “I know - everyone knows - you’re only doing any of this for Arya, but we thank you. There has been so little help to be found from the south these last few years, and your promise of safety for so many a number of Northmen and wildlings has given the people hope and assurance which none have truly felt in… years, it seems.”

Jaime despised gratitude, especially when it was genuine and with full understanding of his motives. Therefore, it was with little or no regret that he informed the woman, “Think nothing of it, Lady Stoy. Your sister has already thanked me, and will continue thanking me every night, several times a night, for many years to come.”

Sansa drew her hand away from his arm as if it had turned to fire, color rising to her cheeks and letting out an indignant huff as her husband began to roar with laughter.

At Jaime’s other side, Arya delivered a solid punch to his shoulder, declaring, “I’ll thank you many times a night with a blade in your arse if you ever talk to my sister like that again.”

Laughing, Jaime snatched her chin and pulled her into a kiss as he told her, “Watch your words, darling girl. I might be tempted to tie you down and-”

“ _If you two keep talking like that at my table, I will toss the both of you into the frozen wastes for the Others to take_ ,” Eddard Stark snarled from several seats down.

“Gods grant me patience,” Catelyn Stark agreed.

* * *

The party was a raucous affair. There were more wildlings present than there were Northmen, and the wildlings indulged in a strong sort of alcohol which they insisted on passing around and toasting with.

He hated the diner and conversation - he would have much prefered to be back in bed with his wife. He also didn’t appreciate how much talk there was of Others south of the wall and remarks from Northmen eager to send their wives and children south. It was a _wedding_ , not a war council, even if he might generally prefer war councils to weddings.

Jaime and Arya eventually left the high table and joined the wildlings at a table below - Tormund and the Thenns didn’t talk of Others or the south (the Thenns didn’t speak a word to Jaime at all, instead speaking with Arya in their native tongue), and Tormund mostly reminisced about his own marriages.

As the night came to a close, Arya and Jaime made their rounds, wishing people goodnight.

“There was a marriage bed made for you,” Jon told Jaime with a grin, “but the servants have announced that the bedding has already been removed from Arya’s room.”

Jaime responded with a grin of his own. “My wife and I are people of action,” he replied.

Laughing, Jon told him, “Go on, get out of here before my father or Lady Caitlyn come to strangle you.”

“That is one of the finest ideas I’ve heard all night,” Jaime told him as he started towards where Arya stood talking with her brother, Bran.

“Oh, and Lannister?” Jon called. “If you allow any harm to come to her while she is under your protection, I’ll march an army of White Walkers to the south myself.”

That threat was even better than the one Tywin had given Robert the night of his marriage to Cersei, which went something along the lines of, _I’ll do to you what I did to the Targaryens_. It was a threat which Robert soon went to ignoring, and which Tywin never upheld. Jamie didn’t doubt Jon Snow’s oath one whit, however.

Jaime gave the man a nod to show he understood, then went to Arya and dropped an arm over her shoulder. “Come along, wife,” he demanded. “I grow weary of speaking politely to the bloody fools who are your father’s bannermen.”

“You haven’t spoken politely to a single one of them,” Arya immediately argued even as she allowed him to lead her out of the hall and towards her chambers. “You told Lord Manderly that four wildlings could survive for a year on the food he ate in a night.”

“I was simply giving him some friendly advice in regards to the way he conducts himself in front of half starved freefolk,” he rejoined. “He’ll be the first one they kill if they find themselves out of food.”

With a snort, the girl told him, “If he found himself out of food, he’d probably try eating his _own_ leg, first.”

“Horrible, vicious woman,” Jaime chuckled before setting a kiss to the top of Arya’s head.

“Don’t get sweet with me,” she demanded, shoving him away from her. “I’m still angry at you for making me go to the feast.”

“I’ll need to give you a proper apology, then,” he informed her.

“You’ll need to give me several, at least,” she confirmed.

* * *

Arya was better the second time. She was loose and welcoming for him, and she was prepared - eager, even.

She also proved to be demanding, constantly telling him _Do that again_ , and _More_ , and _Faster_ . He didn’t mind, at first. He was glad she was enjoying herself, and telling him how to ensure she _continued_ enjoying herself. After a while, though, he grew irritated - couldn’t she simply relax for a few moments? Couldn’t she let him do what needed to be done without constantly demanding _more, more, more_?

The third time, he held her down.

By the time the pair slid into sleep, Jaime decided that he was rather pleased with himself. White Walkers and Resources and kings be damned - he’d face it all if it meant he’d get to have this for the rest of his life.

* * *

Theon and Sansa Stoy left for the Dreadfort in the East a few days after the wedding, a contingent of Northmen and wildlings gone with them. Arya actually deigned to hug her sister goodbye, and Catelyn Stark watched on with tears in her eyes.

The woman had no tears for her husband as he departed for the Wall several days latter, however. She watched on, her mouth set in a firm line, as Eddard Stark hugged his sons and kissed his daughter one last time.

“Thank you for getting her someplace safe,” he told Jaime before departing, his gaze solemn and resigned. “I would have prefered she married any other man in the world, I think, but I doubt any of them would have been capable of ensuring her compliance as you have. If she were to remain, she would have died, one way or the other, before winter’s end.”

“She still might,” Jaime pointed out.

“Aye,” Eddard bitterly muttered. “But at least now she’ll have a fighting chance. She won’t take part in any wars in the south, not the way she would have if she remained in the north.”

“I won’t be letting her leave my side anytime soon,” Jaime promised, and Eddard nodded.

He wondered how much of his pride the man had sacrificed to announce that he trusted Jaime with his daughter, even if he didn’t like Jaime.

“And my son,” the man suddenly added.

“Pardon?” Jaime asked.

“Jon,” Eddard said. “He’ll be riding west, to inform the hill tribes and any wildlings living in the Barrowlands or the Rills of the ships waiting at the Saltspear to take them to Lannisport. He’ll be sailing on one of those ships, himself.”

“You don’t want him in Winterfell with Robb?” Jaime asked.

“Robb will have Rickon and Bran to assist him. If the Wall falls and White Walkers run south… We cannot afford to lose Jon.”

“Why Jon?” Jaime asked.

The man turned hard eyes on Jaime. “Why did you do it?” he quietly asked. “Why did you do it, truely?”

Jaime knew exactly what the man was asking, and he considered replying as he always had before - with a dismissive jape of some sort. There was one on the edge of his tongue, but as he looked into Eddard Stark’s eyes, he found himself saying, “He had wildfire. More than I thought possible to exist. And he was going to use it on the entirety of King’s Landing. I had no choice. There was no choice.”

“And the other Targaryens-”

“I would have followed Rhaegar Targaryen to the seventh pit of hell if he’d asked me to,” Jaime revealed. “He was one of the only truly good men I’ve had the fortune to meet.”

Slowly, Eddard nodded. Then, looking away, he announced, “I’ve only just told Jon. I’m not his father, and he’s not a bastard. He’s the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and my sister, married in secret. They named him for Rhaegar’s nuncle, Amon, Maester of the Night’s Watch. Jamon Targaryen. If the wall falls, Jon may be our only chance of enticing Daenerys Stormborn to bring her dragons to Westeros. If any harm befalls him…”

“I’ll keep him in my protection,” Jaime promised. “And Arya would destroy anybody who tried to hurt him.”

Eddard nodded. “Please, just… don’t let the two of them run off to cross the Narrow Sea or treat with anyone who might wish to bring harm to Jon.”

“That, I cannot promise. Arya’s far too wild, and Jon far too willing to trust both Arya  _and_ people he believes to need his protection. However, I will do my damned best.”

“That’s all any of us can do,” Eddard replied with a sigh as he looked over the family he was leaving behind.

“Your wife wasn’t pleased by the revelation of his true parentage, was she?” Jaime noted.

“No,” Eddard stated, sad eyes looking upon the woman. “Allowing him to live in the castle was the only thing we ever truly fought about during our marriage, and she treated him poorly for the entirety of his time with us. She’s never been proud of her behavior, and she’s shown regret for her actions in the past, but now I think she realized that she missed out on being a mother to a good, kind boy who was guilty of no ill will or action once in his entire life, and who was very lonely despite belonging to a large family.”

“Arya will be glad to have her brother with her at Casterly Rock,” Jaime assured him. “And she has never treated him with anything less than acceptance, pride, and love.”

“Even safe and happy in the south, I will miss them and worry for them,” the man revealed.

Jaime, having reached his limit of compassion and consideration for the time being, clapped the older man on the shoulder and informed him, “You’ll have more to fight for than most men on the wall.”

The man glared at the reminder that he was leaving his home to serve in the Watch with an order of brothers comprised mostly of liars, thieves, murderers and rapists.

“May warm journeys and bloody fights await you,” Jaime intoned, borrowing the farewell most commonly used by the Thenn and Arya’s favorite way to see people off.

As he marched away to give his family one last farewell, Jaime thought he heard Stark mutter _Fucking Lannisters_ under his breath.

* * *

 Jaime balked when he realized that Casterly Rock really _would_ become a refuge for giants and Thenns, the giants consisting of women giants and infants no larger than a fully grown man and toddlers larger than the Mountain. The Thenns were acting as enforcers and Arya’s personal guard (she was not lying when she announced that she had a greater accord with them than her crazy wildling brother).

“It’s a good thing,” she assured Jaime. “The Thenns want to return to Above the Wall more than any of the freefolk, and they have little to no patience for the south. They’ll guard Casterly Rock more fiercely than any other wildling, and they’ll be the quickest to return north. Same with the giants -- they don’t survive comfortably in warm climates.”

He did find some comfort in learning that Tormund would be accompanying them, as well. It would serve him well to have a friendly face among the wildlings who showed him _some_ respect, by both wildling standards and Below the Wall standards.

Robb Stark’s eldest two children would remain with him in Winterfell. As his eldest son, Jon, would be inheriting Robb’s seat and titles one day, it was important that the boy stay in the north and became familiar with it, even in times of danger. Robb insisted that Brandon remain, as well. He claimed that it was just as important for the second son to understand a Lord’s duties as the first, but Arya revealed to Jaime that she suspected Robb was upset by the departure of Jon, Arya, Sansa, and their father, and that losing his wife and children, even though they weren’t truly _lost_ would probably break him. She also liked the idea that her nephew Jon would have a brother his own age to grow up with, as most of the children were leaving Winterfell, and they probably wouldn’t return until they were fully grown.

“Also,” she revealed, “Roslin and her other children with Robb are our tickets through the Twins. Walder Fray always demands a toll for people who wish to cross his bridge. The wildlings have a lot of experience with crossing rivers without boats, and the giants could just as soon wade across, but it would be easier and faster to cross the bridge, and we’ve nothing to barter with. Holding his daughter, Lady of Winterfell, as hostage against him will do the trick.”

 _My wife_ , Jaime reminded himself. _The only woman in the seven kingdoms who would hostage members of her own family who she loved and adored so that her friends could cross a conveniently placed bridge._

People came to Winterfell from all over for the march. High Lords and Ladies of the North, small folk, wildlings from every tribe - Winterfell, who’s wildling population mostly consisted of women and children, would be sending ten thousand to Casterly Rock. Along with Lord Robb’s wife, Ros, and their three youngest children, 150 more highborn women and children would be traveling with them. And this was without the numbers sailing from White Harbor and Saltspear and whoever else they ran into on their journey.

The only companions Jaime did _not_ approve of were Gendry Waters and Jaqen H’ghar.

“A man will continue south after seeing a girl safely to her destination,” the Lorathi informed Jaime, appeasing his ire.

“I’ve completed my apprenticeship,” Gendry told him stubbornly. “And I’ve trained four more, for both Winterfell _and_ the Watch, and two of them with true talent. _You_ however, don’t have _any_ blacksmiths among all those wildlings, and not enough civilized folk by half.

Jaime wished he was there to see the look on his father’s face when the man realized that Casterly Rock was being properly invaded by the north.

Arya spent the night before the march with her family. They gathered in the solar, Bran lying with his head in Arya’s lap as she spoke quietly with Bran while Robb sat close to his very pregnant wife and Jon played with his nieces and nephews ( _his cousins,_ Jaime remembered). The Stark children's direwolves lay next to the hearth, dozing.

“You’re sure you won’t accompany us South?” Jaime asked Lady Stark as she watched over her family. She had aged ten years overnight, the loss of her husband and the departure of two of her children affecting her deeply. “Ros would appreciate your presence, I’m sure.”

“Ros, yes. I couldn’t watch Arya march off to treat with giants and Thenns, though. Even _knowing_ that she does, has been for years without me hearing a word of it…”

“She can be quite vicious when she puts her mind to it,” Jaime agreed.

“I won’t abandon Robb, though. Not so soon after Ned’s left. And not when Ros is leaving, as well. His boys will need a woman. A woman who isn’t a wildling. After Rickon…”

“If he’s anything like his sister, Rickon was inevitable, just as Arya was,” Jaime commented. “Robb and his boys will appreciate your presence in Winterfell, though. I’m sure.”

The woman’s eyes slid over to Jon, and Jaime understood her expression. _He’s the one that got away. She could spend the rest of this night apologizing, and Jon would forgive her every slight and hurt, but she would not forgive herself. She could spend just as much time caring for him as she had despising him, and still she may not forgive herself._ He’d often felt the same thing towards Tyrion. His brother may have eventually forgiven Jaime for his part in Tyrion's tragic marriage, but Jaime hadn’t felt absolved when he had.

“Jamon,” Jaime muttered. “Seven hells, but the Targaryens always gave their children the most pretentious names.”

“I see it in his eyes,” Lady Stark quietly murmured, looking haunted. “I thought… The color only ever seemed off in certain lights, and I assumed it was his mother’s color…”

“If we died his hair blond, there would be no question,” Jaime agreed. “Although, I don’t think he would ever resort to such tactics. I’ve never met a man so vain as Jon Snow about his hair.”

“He doesn’t even put oil in it,” the woman chuckled with a sad smile. “He would scream as a child whenever I ordered it cut.”

Across the solar, Arya pulled her baby brother’s ear, making him cry out and start attacking her. As they rolled around on the floor, Rickon’s foot accidentally kicked a direwolf in its hindquarters, making it yelp in surprise and launch itself from it’s resting place, where it ran straight into another sleeping direwolf. Within moments, there were snarling direwolves and snarling Starks rolling around the solar’s floor. With a cry of glee, Jon Stark launched himself into the fray, Jon Snow attempting to restrain the boy. Robb's other children, Brandon and Lyanna, took Jon from behind, the four of them tilting over to land half atop Arya and Rickon, half atop a direwolf.

Bran was laughing even as Ros was shouting at him to pull himself away from the melee. With a thunderous roar, Robb launched from his seat and straight into the thick of it, pulling one of children away from a kicking direwolf even as he began to wrestle with Jon.

“Gods save us, you would think you’re still children!” Caitlyn yelled. “Stop this at once! One of you is going to-”

“I will leave you to your children’s mercy, Lady Stark,” Jaime told the woman, then gave her a hard shove, laughing as Arya caught her before she could come to harm, but then encouraging the children in tickling their grandmother.

Now, Ros was laughing along with Bran, and Jaime took advantage of the moment to take his leave.

Tormund would be going south with him, but Jaime’s own countrymen, the party he’d initially ridden north with, were making for the wall the next day, and there were several wildling acquaintances he wished to see one last time before leaving them to Winterfell.

He’d regret drinking the next day, but then he’d regret leaving Winterfell, as well, he was sure.

* * *

“We will see this place again,” Arya quietly informed him, the oath just as solemn and fierce as her every oath to stand and fight. “This is not farewell.”

“So be it,” Jaime allowed.

He gave her his hand to help her into the wheelcart, and she smacked him away. “Go be useful,” she demanded.

“Yes, wife,” he agreed as she climbed inside to ride with Roslin and the children. He made sure to give her a pinch through her leggings, and she gave him a glare as he closed the carriage door, laughing all the while.

He had to keep himself from turning to watch the bright light of Winterfell as their party rode into the hard snow.


End file.
